


the world is dark (but I'm the spark)

by Neffectual



Series: one step forward, two steps back [12]
Category: BritWres, Professional Wrestling, Progress Wrestling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Insecurity, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 13:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18639133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Sexsmith isn't what he used to be, is tired of being the pretty pawn they all cheer for. It's time to be something else.





	the world is dark (but I'm the spark)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A Death by an Unkindness. Emotion from watching back some matches.

He wishes he was one of those people whose anxiety wrote itself across their skin in slim wrists and angled hipbones, wished the very scent of tragedy sent him running for the gym, but he’s not that under control, and never has been. He still gets gear made with an inch taken off the waist, a vanity he can’t afford himself, really, but does so anyway. It’s easier than facing up to gains that come from nights, worn-weary, sleeping on someone’s sofa again, sharing lifts home in the dark of the night, his cheek pressed to the window and staring out at the lights of the other cars passing by, wishing they were beams from alien ships, and could carry him away.

He's sick of never being good enough, sick of going out night after night and having to smile and wave and take his shirt off like he’s a circus show, like he’s something to be looked at and never touched. They look at him with something like worship and something like pity and he wants to snap and snarl and sneer but he’s supposed to be the good dog, rainbow-draped and oh so biddable. They took his teeth a long time ago, when they decreed that easy and sleazy wasn’t good enough representation, when they decreed he had no choice but to be the role model he’s never believed in himself enough to be.

Everyone else gets to just be themselves, but he’s ‘the’ queer one, and sure, there might be others, but he’s the most scrutinised, the most obviously pointed at for people to question and complain about, and sometimes he wishes he’s just told them all to fuck off, accept him for him or not at all, but he was never given that luxury. He’s had to become some sanitised form of queer that they all find acceptable, had to pare back anything fun he’s wanted to do, because they’ve all accused him of not taking his responsibilities seriously. But when did he fucking ask to become responsible for someone else’s understanding of themselves?

He both loved and hated the gimmicks, the blow up doll, the sliding himself along the second rope like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever ridden, all the fripperies of sex and not of sexuality. Loved, because that was him, a little naughty, a little risky, not safe and sweet and clean. Hated, because how dare he be reduced to just that, and nothing else. How dare he have to be The Queer Wrestler who dealt with sensuality, who became exactly what was seen, and wasn’t allowed any greater nuance. Brookes could bring along inflatable Lykos, Devlin was allowed to rap battle, Havoc could do what he wanted, but they were all just expressing a moment in time. It didn’t become who they were, it didn’t follow them and paint them pink and sparkly for all to see. They were allowed to be funny – he wasn’t unless that was all he wanted to be.

He'd shown them, though, stripping himself of association with Sharpe, because the man was too close to a caricature, ceasing to paint himself as a unicorn-aligned happy-go-lucky filler, fit only for scramble matches and gimmick matches. And again, he didn’t mind those, but when all you got were scraps, you started to wonder why, and the answer wasn’t too hard to find. Even now, when he’d demanded people take him seriously, there were still those who wouldn’t boo, who’d pinch his cheeks and say he’s adorable, who would refuse to see him as a threat. He’d always been a threat, always been a fucking wrestler, more than he’d ever been anything else. So why was he treated differently?

The girls laughed, when he passed comment, and he worked it out, that they laughed because they knew exactly how that goes, and how’s that for some queerphobic behaviour, treating him like a woman just because he might like a bit of cock here and there. Didn’t work the other way round, though, Morgan didn’t get better treatment because of her status, he noted, and he’s almost ashamed that he thought it at all. He knew the women went through shit to get where they were, and knew exactly how his predicament felt, but at the same time, they had each other to commiserate with. Who did he have to go to when he just wanted to scream at the world, grab it by the throat and demand it listen, just for a moment?

The worst of it is, he tried heel shit and didn’t work for him. He didn’t have what he needed to make it work, and now that he does, he won’t let it go for fucking anything. He didn’t want to get so angry, didn’t want to chase belts and sneer at previous shirts and everything else he’d done, burning every bridge he ever crossed, some before his feet had even left the boards. He’s resented those who made it look so easy to cross the line from beloved to hated, because fuck knew he had enough hate stored up inside him, fuck knew others had found enough about him to hate that had nothing to do with sexuality. Fuck knew he hated himself enough, most nights.

Finding that anger and channelling it hadn’t changed him the way people thought, it had just made him care less. He didn’t care that he was in some shitty little hotel room, he didn’t care that he’d travelled five hours for pay that wouldn’t have covered that on the train, he didn’t care that every move he’d fucking landed, no one had noticed. He didn’t care that he wasn’t allowed to make a living from his queerness when that had been the one thing he’d been allowed to define himself as, as if people not liking him meant he was excommunicated from the community, outlawed, as if he hadn’t been part of it longer than half the people he saw at shows knew. He couldn’t care, because giving any of that any sort of weight would mean being crushed under it.

Once upon a time, there had been love in what he did, in every show, in reaching out to those around him and making people smile. But that was before something broke under the strain, before he got tired of seeing himself left off lists of queer wrestlers like he hadn’t put his fucking neck out when there was nothing else on the scene like him. Like he hadn’t risked everything to be what he needed to be, like he hadn’t stripped himself bare to beg for acceptance. Well, he’s done fucking begging now, done being on his knees like a dog waiting for scraps or to be kicked, done chasing around bookings that those with half his talent get with ease, and he’s done waiting. If they won’t accept him, just as he is, then he’ll shut down the side they all love, and give them nothing more than – well. Exactly what they deserve.


End file.
